Fitting Name
by beajizz
Summary: Pre-What Was Missing; T-shirt backstory. Marceline and Princess Bubblegum sweet things, with mentions of NSFW.


As you curl up in bed, trying your best not to thrash around uncomfortably, you wonder at which point things became like this. Not the relationship, but the _cuddling._ Never in a thousand years did you think you'd be one for cuddling. What an odd way to show someone your affection: holding them flush against your own body leaving no room for air, touching them in secret places and grabbing at parts that are for your hands only; but you're always careful with her when things get physical. There's a fine line between two sides of the same coin that's crossed when such actions become a little more, and for the sake of softening its vulgarity, you'll call it 'making love.' It's nothing new to you, but the intimacy of it all still manages to cloud your thoughts and make your head swim, unsure if the thought of being so emotionally affectionate nauseates you a little.

And yet here you are, her frame tight against yours as you bury the lower half of your face in her soft, pink hair. Her mouth hovers between the space connecting your jawline and shoulder, puffing hot breaths against your naturally cool skin. She occasionally runs her long, lean calf along yours underneath the sheets, sending shivers up your body. Delicate fingers trail up and down the other side of your neck, pausing to apply faint pressure on your still-sensitive fang marks, smiling every time you tense at the sensation. When you adjust your body slightly, the hand that's placed on the small of her back shifts as well and she instinctively clamps down on your arm with her elbow, thinking you're getting up to leave. This only causes you to smile more. Sometimes when you two fool around, which you've already done a fair share of for tonight, the main cause for her current lethargy, she straddles your waist and holds both your arms up above your head with one hand as the other rakes down your sides. You're obviously stronger than her, nor were you ever fond of being topped, but you roll with it; there's no denying that you love the way she touches you.

Her current tranquility matches the unmoving room; sleep beckoned her not too long ago and you hate that it doesn't come as easy for you to do the same. You hate how you have to watch her like this, and how your mind wades through unwanted thoughts of how you'll be when she isn't around anymore. Your breath hitches and the notions are violently pushed aside. You refuse to think about such negativity about her, ever, and certainly not this early in the morning.

Then it hits you: what time is it? You don't have a clock, or windows for that matter (but for good reason), in your bedroom like she does. You feel somewhat guilty because you know she likes the way the sun bathes her in the morning like the way moonlight wraps around you at night. Unsure of how much time has passed, you guiltily rouse her from her rest.

"Bonnie?" Your fingertips drum against her back. She stirs and grumbles something incoherent she buries her face deeper into the crook of your neck, drinking more of your unusual, undead scent in. You never understood what she loved about your aroma so much; as far as you know, you smell like damp secrets and rivers, but she loves it anyway. "When do you have to be back at the castle?"

She sighs, her morning breath nothing short of a new pack of bubblegum. "I already told you," her response makes you feel even worse for waking her, "I took the day off."

You told her in the past that it was all right for her to show up unannounced and soon, the irregularity of her visits became the regular. However, last night was completely unexpected, considering how busy she's been lately. She showed up without any bags, hair disheveled and body shivering. You wondered if she had a run in with the Ice King on the way, or if she simply left in a hurry, but either way you were surprised at the sight of her. She showed herself in, closing the door behind her before grabbing your hand and making her way up your bedroom ladder. You didn't have the chance to eat last night, food anyway, but judging by the way your own stomach grumbles, as it hardly ever does, you guess that it's about noon. "Well, aren't you hungry? I could make something."

Her ears perk up at the mention of a meal and she moves back slightly to kiss you good morning. "That sounds lovely." She bites at your collar before loosening her grip around your midsection.

"Meet me downstairs?" She nods. Finally relinquishing yourself from the excruciatingly warm bed sheets, you float your way over to the bathroom. You don't bother to change, comfortable in your current sweats and tank top, but you do take the time to wash your face and brush your teeth. Upon exiting, you see her in full view as she gracefully stands up at the side of your bed to stretch. She's wearing your favorite shirt (the one with the impaled cinnamon rolls and yellow snake), and _only_ your shirt you mentally note. You scored it when you caught the band on tour a few years back, Bubblegum Rock (what a fitting name), one of the best nights of your life if you had to admit it, but you absolutely relish the way it rides up her sides as she lifts her arms to remember it correctly. It's a great fit on her, better than it ever looked on your lanky body but you only smirk, she'll hear about it later.

You set a full kettle on the stove and plug a toaster in on the side. Remarkably amongst your ocean of red, you find a carton of eggs. _Sunny-side up, runny yolk_ – the way she likes it, you find it gross. Scrambling for a pan in the cabinet above you, the ladder from the living room creaks as Bubblegum descends. You turn just enough to catch her entering the kitchen, one hand stifling a yawn, the other cradling a thick book against her chest, pen tapping against it. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of her, even more striking now that the natural light that spills through the cave opening illuminates her features better; you eye her a little too hard as she pulls out a chair and plops down. The way her bare legs cross over each other underneath the table causes the pan's handle to slip slightly out of your clammy grip and the way her fingers trace down the page edges of her book makes you forget. She shifts, turning to eye you incredulously. You're daydreaming: her mouth's moving, whispering cloudy, sweet-nothings but suddenly her voice rings in loud and clear.

"Marceline! Are you alright?"

By the time you come to your senses, the pan clangs against your countertop and causes a painful echo around you, what an ungodly sound. You clear your throat awkwardly, "Sorry, just uh… got something in my eye." You turn before your flush is made visible and crack two eggs into the pan. You've absolutely burned the tea and charred the toast due to the distraction that sits at your table, but hopefully the princess doesn't notice either after adding 6 sugars to her cup and smothering every inch of the bread with strawberry jam.

"What are you reading, nerd?" You prod at the large glasses that rest on the bridge of her nose before setting her food down in front of her. She half-scowls at you, pouting adorably before adjusting them back into position and picking up a slice of toast.

"Biology," she bites down and you hear the mess of black char grind around in her mouth but she doesn't seem to notice. "I'm trying to better understand the anatomy of certain candied people." You pretend to yawn, but wave her on to continue. "Do you really want me to elaborate?" She asks sarcastically.

"Some day off," you tease. Bonnibel scoffs, probably wanting to banter you about her duties and responsibilities, but she lets it slide. Your eyes scroll down from her eyes to her slender neck, arms, and finally her distracting show of legs. "Actually, I'd love for you to elaborate." She cocks her brow.

"You're not one for science, Marceline," she treads carefully, not wanting to offend you.

You float to the stove, eggs finishing up, and turn the heat off. You turn to face her ever so slowly, grinning hard enough to feel it break skin. She blinks once and unexpectedly you're in her lap, straddling her, holding her face with your cool palms. "You'd be surprised. Why didn't you ask me? I'm all about," one hand reaches down to trail a finger up the inner side of her thigh, underneath the hem of the black fabric that rests just before her leg connects with her midsection, "_candy_ _anatomy._"

Her breath snags, "Oh, Marcy." It comes out as a half moan, and you haven't even done anything yet. Her eyes are hooded over, glazed with the same midnight passion that causes you to fidget your legs together. "I couldn't possibly—"

You pull her glasses off, setting them on the table, meeting her gaze full on. "Off the record. It's your day off after all," you attempt with your best puppy eyes.

She opens and closes her mouth, multiple times, but doesn't utter a word. Her eyes wander down your body but come to a halt at the hand that rests on her thigh. You stroke at the skin, trying your best to coerce her into more 'learning.' Her eyes dart back up to lock with yours; they swim with suggestiveness. "What about my tea?"

"You could not have tea," you chortle. It's for the better anyway; hopefully by skipping out, she won't think you're a _total _disaster at making breakfast. "C'mon Bonnie, for… science?"

Her eyes light up at the remark, glistening over, and she inches closer to your face. "For _science._" She never says no to field research.

* * *

It's getting late. Considering how awake you feel, it's just past sundown. "You sure you don't want me to drop you home? It's no problem, I can throw on a jacket and we—"

Bubblegum silences you with her mouth. "The Morrow will be here to get me." She's laying on you; resting her chin in an open palm propped up on her elbow beside your ribcage. Strands of her hair tickle your mouth and you resist the urge to drain the color out of those too. "Thank you," she kisses you, feathery to the touch, "For last night; for this. And for the burnt breakfast I never finished."

Was it really that bad? You smile at her, rows of fangs displayed. "Well, at least the _other half_ of your meal was pretty good, don't you agree?" You lick your lips, "I'll admit, I never thought I'd have gum for breakfast."

She flushes, hard. "Shush." Her smile is sugary sweet and you drink it in, unsure of the next time you'll be able to see it again; busy body Bonnibel. You should write a song about that. "And all the other nights, including the ones ahead, of course. Thank you, I mean. I just really needed to see you again, it's been so long and—"

"At your service, princess. I'm always around for you." Silence fills the room. Your fingers trace the outline of her face in the calm and she inclines to the touch. Pink fingers from her free hand intertwine with yours, bringing them to her mouth. She brushes your knuckles with her lips, sighs. Her weight settles in your lap as she sits back, "I should be getting ready." Letting go of you, she grips at the shirt's collar.

"Getting ready to leave or getting ready for another round?" It's a half joke.

"Shut up," she whispers playfully down at you. She makes her move to remove your shirt, but you hold her wrist to stop her.

"Wait—um, don't take it off." You lose your cool, literally, because your face is ablaze. "Keep it," you swallow hard, "Only if you want to, though." She blinks a few times, your nervousness isn't something you see everyday. Clearing your throat, you continue, a little steadier this time, "As, you know, a reminder of all this. When I'm not around. You look hot in my clothes anyway."

Her smile lights up the room, sweet and simple. She leans down to kiss you; more passionately this time, not like the argument of tongues you've been doing for the past 24 hours. It's not messy, it's not quick, like your mouths need to be elsewhere on the body; she's putting herself into this kiss. A hushed 'thank you', a bittersweet goodbye, an 'until next time.' Whenever that is. Next week? Month? Who knows? But you'll wait.

And you do. For weeks, months even. The missing of each other is mutual, but you distance yourself; she's a busy girl, and you respect that. Exchanged words become less frequent, the visits even less. But no matter how thin the wire got between you two, she never did return Bubblegum Rock.


End file.
